#deanambrose

I grabbed my leather jacket from the bench, threw it over my shoulder, and kicked the locker room door open. The hallway was dim, lit only by the emergency fluorescents that buzzed like trapped flies. 

I wasn't looking for trouble. Usually, trouble has a GPS tracker on me, but for once, I was just looking for the exit. I wanted fresh air. I wanted to disappear into the night. 

Then I saw the silhouette. 

At the end of the long concrete corridor, leaning against a stack of travel crates, was a figure. Even in the bad light, I recognized the posture. Not a wrestler. Wrestlers stand like they’re ready to get hit. This person stood like they owned the building. 

I slowed my pace, the boots of my jeans scuffing the floor. As I got closer, the details sharpened. Blonde hair pulled back tight. Expensive suit—custom fit, not off the rack. Sharp eyes that were tracking me like a sniper scope. 

YN Heyman. 

Great. Just what I needed. The Advocate’s flesh and blood. The Princess of Paul. 

I’d avoided her since she started showing up backstage a few months ago. Paul Heyman was a shark, a walrus, a manipulator of the highest order. If he was in the room, the oxygen level dropped. His daughter? She was a variable I hadn't solved yet. She didn't stand by Brock’s side bouncing around. She didn't carry the belt. She just... watched. She carried a clipboard and a terrifying amount of silence. 

"You look like hell, Ambrose," she said. Her voice was smoother than her father’s, lacking that abrasive New York screech, but it had the same cadence. The same calculated rhythm. 

"And you look like you’re lost," I grunted, not stopping. I tried to walk past her, hugging the wall. "Gift shop’s closed, sweetheart. Tell your dad the Beast gets his feeding time next week." 

"My father is already at the hotel," she said. She didn't move, but she shifted her weight, effectively blocking the narrow path between the crates and the wall. "And I'm not here for Brock." 

I stopped. I turned to face her, letting the leather jacket slide down my arm a bit. My guard went up. In this business, nobody just 'hangs out' in a loading dock at 1:00 AM unless they’re selling something or stealing something. 

"Then move," I said, leaning in. "Unless you want to talk about the weather. Which, by the way, is cloudy with a chance of me throwing someone through a table." 

YN didn't flinch. That was the first thing that annoyed me. Most people flinch. Seth flinches. Roman doesn't flinch, but he glares. She just looked at me with this unnerving curiosity, like I was a math problem on a whiteboard. 

"You're paranoid," she stated. 

"I'm employed," I corrected. "In this company, they're the same thing. What do you want, YN? You want to advocate for me? Sorry, I don't do suits, and I don't do scripts." 

"I have a proposition," she said, reaching into the inner pocket of her blazer. 

My muscles tensed. I expected a weapon. Or a contract. With the Heymans, a contract was usually more dangerous than a knife. 

She pulled out a phone. "The Authority knows you're still in the building. Kane is sweeping the north exit. Noble and Mercury are covering the loading dock. They aren't planning on letting you leave with your knees intact tonight." 

I stared at the phone, then at her face. "Why tell me?" 

"Because I find their methods... inelegant," she said, pocketing the device. "And because chaos is good for business. If they break you in a parking lot, you can't fight on Sunday. If you can't fight on Sunday, the buy-rate drops. My father cares about the title. I care about the ecosystem." 

"The ecosystem," I repeated, letting out a dry, manic laugh. "You talk exactly like him. It’s creepy. You know that? It’s like watching a ventriloquist dummy that came to life and went to law school." 

"Are you going to insult me, or are you going to let me get you out of here?" 

I ran a hand through my messy hair, wincing as my ribs caught on a breath. I looked down the hall. It was quiet. Too quiet. Usually, you can hear the ring crew shouting, trucks backing up. Nothing. Just the hum of the vending machine. 

She might be telling the truth. Or she might be leading me into a trap. 

"Where’s the car?" I asked. 

"East exit. Staff lot. It's unblocked." 

I looked at her. "You drive." 

"Obviously." 

Her car was exactly what I expected. Black, German engineering, leather seats that cost more than my first apartment. It smelled like vanilla and new money. I threw my jacket in the back and sat in the passenger seat, knees cramped against the dashboard. 

YN drove with one hand on the wheel, navigating the labyrinth of the arena parking lot with precision. We slipped out the side gate just as I saw the flashing lights of a security cruiser pulling up to the loading dock I’d almost walked out of. 

"Well," I muttered, slumping back into the seat. "Score one for the Walrus cub." 

"Don't call me that," she said softly. There was no venom in it, just a flat command. 

"So, what's the angle?" I asked, watching the city lights blur past as we merged onto the highway. "You save the Lunatic Fringe from a beatdown. You earn a favor? Is that it? You gonna call it in when Brock needs a kidney donor?" 

She kept her eyes on the road. The dashboard lights cast a green glow across her face. She looked tired. Not physical tired, but soul tired. The kind of tired you get when you grow up in a circus and realize the clowns are all alcoholics and the lion tamer is a sociopath. 

"I don't want a favor, Dean," she said. "I want to know why you do it." 

"Do what? Wrestle?" 

"No. Why you resist." 

I frowned, shifting to get comfortable. "Resist what? Authority?" 

"Control," she said. "Everyone else in that locker room has a price. Seth sold out for the spotlight. Roman fights for the legacy. Cena fights for the brand. You... you fight like you’re trying to claw your way out of your own skin. You have no allegiance. You have no price tag. My father can't stand it. He can't advocate for someone he can't quantify." 

I stared out the window. The highway was empty. "Maybe I just like to fight." 

"That's a lie," she said. "You're smart. I've watched you. You play the unhinged brawler, the 'Lunatic,' but you watch every angle. You know where the cameras are. You know the psychology of the crowd better than veterans twice your age. You’re not crazy, Dean. You’re just bored." 

I turned my head slowly to look at her. The air in the car suddenly felt very thin. She was peeling back layers I didn't let anyone see. Not Renee. Not Roman. Definitely not her dad. 

"Careful, YN," I warned, my voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. "You start digging around in my head, you’re gonna find some stuff that stains." 

"I grew up with Paul Heyman," she countered, finally glancing at me for a split second. "I've been analyzing sociopaths since I was in kindergarten. You don't scare me. You fascinate me." 

"I'm not a science experiment." 

"No. You're a glitch. A glitch in the system that the Authority created. And I like glitches." 

We drove in silence for a few miles. The tension wasn't hostile anymore. It was heavy, magnetic. I realized then that she wasn't just Paul's daughter. She was a player. Maybe a more dangerous one because nobody saw her coming. Paul screamed from the mountaintops. YN whispered from the shadows. 

"You hate him, don't you?" I asked suddenly. 

"Who?" 

"Your dad." 

She tightened her grip on the steering wheel. Her knuckles turned white. "Hate is a strong word. It implies passion. I don't waste passion on business." 

"Bullshit," I said. "I saw the way you looked at him when he was cutting that promo last week. You looked like you wanted to shove that microphone down his throat." 

A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "He talks a lot. Sometimes... silence is a luxury." 

"So you saved me to piss him off?" 

"Maybe," she conceded. "Or maybe I just wanted to see what would happen if I let the wild dog off the leash instead of letting the pound catch him." 

We pulled up to the hotel. It was the "good" hotel, the one the top guys stayed at. I usually stayed at the Motel 6 down the road, but tonight, with my ribs feeling like they were knit together with rusty wire, I wasn't going to argue. 

She put the car in park but didn't unlock the doors immediately. She turned to me, her body shifting in the leather seat. The streetlamp outside cast half her face in shadow. 

"You're going to get yourself killed, Dean," she said. It wasn't a threat. It sounded like a fact. 

"Part of the charm," I shrugged. 

"The Authority isn't going to stop. Seth isn't going to stop. And eventually, my father is going to point Brock at you. Not because he hates you, but because you're in the way." 

"Let him point," I snarled, the bravado kicking back in. "I’ll bite the finger off." 

"I know you will," she said. She reached out, her hand hovering near my arm for a second before she pulled it back. It was a moment of hesitation that didn't fit her profile. "That's why I'm helping you. The system needs to break. And you're the only sledgehammer heavy enough to do it." 

I looked at her. Really looked at her. Beneath the expensive makeup and the cold Heyman exterior, there was a fire. A resentment. She wasn't trying to run the business; she was trying to burn it down, just like me. She was just using matches instead of gasoline. 

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked. "If I know you're playing both sides, I could blow your cover. I could go into that locker room tomorrow and tell everyone that YN Heyman is a traitor to the family brand." 

"You could," she agreed. Her eyes locked onto mine. They were blue, icy, and incredibly sharp. "But you won't. Because you don't trust anyone enough to tell them. And because... I think you like the secret." 

She unlocked the doors. The sound was loud in the quiet cabin. 

I opened the door and stepped out into the cool night air. My boots hit the pavement. I felt the ache in my body return instantly. I leaned back into the car. 

"Thanks for the ride," I said. 

"Dean," she called out before I could close the door. 

"Yeah?" 

"Don't trust me," she said. "Just because I saved you tonight doesn't mean I won't sell you out tomorrow if the math makes sense. I am my father's daughter." 

I grinned. A real, crooked grin. "I wouldn't have it any other way, sweetheart." 

I slammed the door and watched her drive off. The taillights disappeared around the corner, leaving me standing alone in the hotel parking lot. 

I reached into my pocket and realized she’d slipped something in there. I pulled it out. It was a key card. Not for a room, but a security access card. It was labeled 'Executive Level - All Access.' 

I turned it over in my fingers. This little piece of plastic could get me into Triple H’s office. It could get me into the production truck. It could cause a hell of a lot of havoc. 

She had given me the keys to the kingdom, or the keys to my own execution. I didn't know which. I didn't know if she was falling for me, using me, or just bored and playing with her food. I didn't know if she really hated her dad or if this was some complex, 4D chess game they were playing together to screw with my head. 

I looked at the card, then at the empty road where she had vanished. A normal person would toss it. A smart person would run. 

I put the card in my pocket and walked toward the hotel entrance. 

I tried to analyze her motives. Was it rebellion? Attraction? Strategy? Why did she look at me like I was the only real thing in a world of fake fights? 

I stopped at the revolving doors. I could spend all night trying to figure out YN Heyman. I could drive myself crazy—crazier—trying to untangle the web she was spinning. 

But then I remembered the way her eyes sparked when I mentioned burning it all down. 

I touched the key card in my pocket again. 

Something tells me I'm better off not knowing. 

The hotel was one of those historic, labyrinthine structures that the WWE preferred for the UK tours. High ceilings, narrow corridors, and an abundance of nooks where exhausted superstars could hide. YN bypassed the elevators, knowing they would likely contain fans or, worse, production crew wanting to talk about "spots" and "timing." She took the stairs, climbing upward until she reached the heavy fire door that led to the roof access. 

She pushed it open. 

The cold hit her first, a biting, damp chill that smelled of ozone, wet concrete, and diesel fumes. The roof was technically off-limits, a sprawling expanse of HVAC units and ventilation shafts, but it was the only place in the city that felt empty. 

Or so she thought. 

"You're letting all the heat out, Princess." 

The voice was gravel over velvet, a distinct, jagged cadence that scraped against the hum of the city. YN froze, her hand still on the door handle. 

Dean Ambrose was sitting on the ledge of a raised ventilation unit, his legs dangling over the side. He was soaked. His hair, usually a chaotic mess, was plastered to his forehead, and his leather jacket glistened under the weak amber light of the safety lamps. He didn't look at her; he was staring out at the blurred skyline of Manchester, a cigarette unlit and forgotten in his fingers. 

"I didn't know this spot was taken," YN said, her voice sounding sharper than she intended. The defensive walls, built high and thick, slammed into place automatically. 

"It's a big roof," Dean shrugged, finally turning his head. His blue eyes were piercing, even in the gloom. "Plenty of room for royalty." 

YN sighed, releasing the door. It clicked shut behind her, sealing out the warmth of the hotel. "I'm not in the mood for the 'Lunatic' shtick tonight, Dean. If you're going to be cryptic and weird, I'll go back downstairs." 

Dean huffed a laugh, a short exhale of steam in the cold air. "No shtick. Just breathing. It’s crowded down there. Too many people trying to be important." 

He patted the wet concrete beside him. It was a peace offering, or perhaps a dare. With Dean, the line was often blurred. 

YN hesitated, then walked over. She didn't sit immediately. She stood by the ledge, looking down at the streetlights reflecting in the puddles three stories below. "Rough night?" she asked, glancing at the bruising already forming along his jawline. 

"Standard," Dean murmured. "Got thrown through a table. Ate a few chair shots. The usual Tuesday." He looked up at her, tilting his head. "You, though. You won. Clean. Figure-Eight in the middle of the ring. Confetti and everything. So why do you look like you just lost your dog?" 

YN wrapped her arms around herself, shivering slightly. " I just... I didn't feel it." 

"Ah," Dean said, as if that explained everything. "The robot mode. The 'do it because it’s perfect' mode." 

"It’s not robot mode," she snapped, stung by the accuracy. "It’s excellence. It’s what I’m bred to do." 

"Bred," Dean repeated the word, tasting it with distaste. "Like a racehorse. Or a poodle." 

"Watch it, Ambrose." 

"I'm just saying," Dean shifted, finally putting the unlit cigarette back in his pocket, realizing the rain had ruined it anyway. "You go out there, you hit your marks, you do the strut, you 'Wooo,' and you come back. It’s perfect. It’s pristine. And it’s boring the hell out of you, isn't it?" 

YN finally sat down. The concrete was freezing, seeping through her sweats instantly, but the shock of the cold felt grounding. "It’s not boring. It’s... heavy. Everyone expects the Flair magic. Every single night. If I slip, if I stumble, I’m a failure. If you stumble, it’s just 'Dean being unpredictable.'" 

"Chaos has its perks," Dean agreed, leaning back on his hands. "No expectations means no disappointment. But that's not your problem, YN. Your problem is you're trying to be him. And you're not him." 

She turned to him, her eyes narrowing. "I am not trying to be my father." 

"Deeply, you are," Dean countered, his voice dropping an octave, losing the mocking edge. "You wear the robe. You use the music. Well part of it anyway. You use the moves. You're armor-plated in the legacy because you're scared that if you strip it all away, there's nothing underneath." 

The silence that stretched between them was louder than the rain. It was a harsh, brutal assessment, the kind only someone like Dean Ambrose—who had zero filter and zero regard for politeness—would dare to vocalize. 

YN felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes, hot and frustrating. "You don't know me, Jon." She used his real name, a desperate attempt to ground the conversation, to pull the mask off him since he was pulling one off her. 

Dean’s expression softened instantly. The chaotic energy dissipated, replaced by a weary, localized intensity. He shifted closer, his shoulder brushing against hers. "I know you," he said quietly. "I watch the monitors. I see you in catering staring at a salad like it insulted your ancestors. I see you walking on eggshells around the agents." 

He reached out, his hand rough and calloused, and brushed a wet strand of blonde hair away from her face. The touch was electric, startlingly gentle for a man known for violence. 

"I see a girl who wants to burn the whole castle down but is afraid she’ll get in trouble for playing with matches," he whispered. 

YN’s breath hitched. She stared at him, really stared at him. Up close, the scars on his forehead were visible, the map of a career built on blood and barbed wire. But his eyes were clear. Steady. 

"And what if I do?" she asked, her voice trembling. "What if I burn it down?" 

"Then you build something else," Dean said simply. "Something that's yours." 

The wind picked up, whipping rain against their faces. They should have gone inside. They were professional athletes; getting sick was a liability. But neither moved. The proximity was magnetic. 

"Why do you care?" YN asked. "We run in different circles, Dean. You're the Lunatic Fringe. I'm the Princess. We don't mix." 

"Maybe I'm tired of circles," Dean muttered, looking down at her lips, then back to her eyes. "Maybe I like the contrast. You're so polished, YN. You shine so bright it hurts my eyes sometimes. But out here... in the rain... you're real." 

He leaned in. It wasn't a smooth, movie-star move. It was hesitant, almost jerky, giving her a thousand chances to pull away, to slap him, to retreat into her pedigree. 

She didn't. 

She closed the gap. 

His lips were cold from the rain but warm underneath, tasting of peppermint and faint tobacco. It wasn't a tentative kiss; it was a collision. Dean kissed like he fought—with intensity, with a desperate need to feel something. His hand tangled in the back of her wet hair, pulling her closer, anchoring her against the storm. 

YN melted. The posture, the poise, the ‘Princess’ persona—it all dissolved. She wasn't Charlotte’s sister, she wasn't Ric Flair's daughter; she was just a woman on a roof in Manchester, gripping the soaked leather of a man’s jacket as if he were the only solid thing in the universe. 

When they broke apart, breathless, their foreheads rested against each other. The rain was coming down harder now, a true English deluge. 

Dean laughed, a low rumble in his chest. "Well. That’s gonna complicate things." 

YN wiped water from her face, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She looked at him—really looked at him—and saw the trouble. The absolute chaos this would bring. The dirt sheets would have a field day. Her father would likely have an aneurysm. The Authority would view it as mixing oil and water. 

"You're insane," she whispered, but a smile was tugging at the corner of her mouth. 

"Certified," Dean grinned, his thumb tracing her cheekbone. "But you kissed me back. So, what’s the diagnosis on you?" 

YN took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of the rain and the man in front of her. "I think I'm in trouble." 

"The good kind," Dean promised. "Come on. You’re freezing." 

He stood up and offered her a hand. She took it, feeling the roughness of his palm against hers. He pulled her up easily, but instead of letting go, he kept her hand in his, interlacing their fingers. It felt foreign, this casual intimacy, yet strangely right. 

They walked back to the heavy fire door. Dean pushed it open, holding it for her. The warmth of the hotel hallway hit them, a stark contrast to the wildness of the roof. 

As the door clicked shut, cutting off the sound of the rain, silence returned. But it wasn't the lonely silence of before. It was heavy with unspoken questions and terrifying possibilities. 

They stood in the stairwell, dripping water onto the linoleum. Dean looked at her, his hair dripping onto his nose, looking like a drowned rat, yet somehow the most attractive thing she had ever seen. 

"So," Dean said, leaning against the railing, still holding her hand. "Dinner tomorrow? Not catering. Real food. Greasy food. Somewhere nobody knows how to spell 'Flair'." 

YN looked down at their joined hands, then up at his hopeful, guarded expression. The reality of what this meant—dating Dean Ambrose, the scrutiny, the clash of lifestyles—crashed down on her all at once. It was terrifying. It was exhilarating. 

She let out a long, shaky exhale. 

"This is a lot to take in," she admitted softly. 

Dean squeezed her hand. "I know. I’m an acquired taste. Like black coffee. Or getting hit with a kendo stick." 

"I like black coffee," YN mused, a genuine smile breaking through. 

"See?" Dean grinned, that boyish, disarming grin that rarely made it to TV. "We're halfway there." 

He tugged her gently toward the stairs leading down to the residential floors. "Go get dry, YN. I'll see you tomorrow." 

"Jon?" 

He paused, looking back. 

"Don't get thrown through any tables before dinner." 

"No promises," he winked. "But for you, I'll try to land on the padded mats this time." 

YN watched him walk down the hall, his stride loose and rolling, leaving a trail of water droplets on the carpet. She touched her lips, which still tingled from the cold and the heat of him. 

She turned and walked toward her room, the silence of the hotel no longer oppressive. The pressure of the legacy was still there, the weight of the name Fliehr still heavy, but for the first time in a long time, she felt like she wasn't carrying it alone. She was walking into a storm, she knew that. But looking back at the wet footprints on the floor, she realized that maybe, just maybe, she was finally ready to get a little wet. 

The next day, the Manchester arena was buzzing with a different kind of energy. The backstage area was the usual chaotic ant hill of producers running with headsets, wardrobe seamstresses frantically sewing ripped spandex, and wrestlers oiling up for the spotlight. 

YN sat in makeup, the stylist applying the signature sharp eyeliner that made her look fierce, regal. 

"You're glowing today, honey," the makeup artist, a sweet woman named Sandra, commented, tilting YN's chin up. "Get a good night's sleep?" 

"Something like that," YN murmured, fighting a smile. 

She had spent the morning overanalyzing everything. Was it just the adrenaline? Was it the isolation of the tour? But then a text had come through on her phone at 11 AM: Found a place. Burgers the size of your head. 9 PM. Don't wear the sequins. 

It was just a text, but it felt like a contract. 

As she finished up and walked toward the Gorilla position for her promo segment, the hallway seemed to part for her. She walked with the 'Flair' strut, chin up, shoulders back. But as she rounded the corner near the catering area, she saw him. 

Dean was leaning against a crate, talking to Roman Reigns. He was taping his wrists, his teeth tearing the athletic tape. He looked up as she passed. 

He didn't wave. He didn't smile. He just held her gaze for a split second, a micro-moment of acknowledgement that sent a jolt of electricity straight down her spine. It was a secret language, a silent confirmation that the roof hadn't been a dream. 

"You okay?" Roman asked him, noticing Dean's distraction. 

"Peachy," Dean muttered, finishing his wrist tape. "Just... thinking about strategy." 

"Strategy?" Roman laughed. "Since when do you have a strategy?" 

"Since last night," Dean said cryptically, pushing off the crate. 

YN walked through the curtain and out onto the stage. The music hit—the iconic drums, the trumpets. The crowd roared, a mix of cheers and jeers, the sound of 15,000 people reacting to the Flair Princess. 

She walked down the ramp, the lights blinding, the heat of the pyro on her skin. Usually, this walk felt like a march into battle, a performance where she had to prove she belonged. 

But today, as she stepped into the ring and demanded a microphone, she felt different. She looked into the hard cam, the red light blinking. 

"Everyone wants to talk about legacy," she began, her voice echoing through the arena. "Everyone wants to talk about what it means to be a Flair." 

She paused, letting the 'Wooo's' ripple through the crowd. 

"But legacies aren't just about the past," she said, deviating slightly from the script. "They're about the chaos you create in the present." 

Backstage, watching on a monitor, Dean Ambrose cracked a smile. 

"That's my girl," he whispered to no one. 

Later that night, the rain had returned, because it was Manchester and the sky held a grudge. 

YN waited in the lobby, dressed in jeans, boots, and a leather jacket she hadn't worn in years. She felt exposed without the armor of her gowns, but also liberated. 

The elevator dinged, and Dean stepped out. He had cleaned up—fresh jeans, a black hoodie under a denim jacket, hair wet from a shower but combed back. 

He stopped when he saw her. He looked her up and down, not with the lecherous gaze of the industry wolves, but with an appreciation that made her blush. 

"No sequins," he noted, walking over. 

"I follow instructions," she replied, keeping her voice low so the few fans lurking near the hotel entrance wouldn't hear. 

"Good. Cause this place is a dive. If you wore the robe, they'd probably try to deep fry it." 

"Lead the way, Lunatic." 

They stepped out into the night. The paparazzi weren't there yet—they were mostly camped out at the nicer hotel across town where the executives stayed. Dean knew the back streets. He navigated Manchester like a stray cat, cutting through alleys and side streets until the noise of the main road faded. 

They ended up at a pub that smelled of old wood and vinegar. It was loud, crowded, and nobody looked twice at them. They found a booth in the back. 

Dean ordered two pints and a mountain of food. As the night wore on, the initial awkwardness of the daylight vanished. They talked about everything except wrestling. Dean talked about the desert, about the silence of Nevada, about fixing up old trucks. YN talked about her brothers, about the pressure of NCAA volleyball, about how much she secretly hated hairspray. 

It was easy. It was terrifyingly easy. 

"So," Dean said, wiping grease from his fingers with a napkin. "What happens when we go back to the States? When we're not hiding in a British pub?" 

YN took a sip of her beer. She looked at him, at the scruff on his face, the intensity in his eyes. She thought about the locker room whispers. She thought about Vince McMahon’s inevitable eyebrows raising. 

"I guess we figure it out," she said. "I guess we make a scene." 

Dean smirked. "I'm good at making scenes." 

He reached across the table and took her hand. It was a bold move in a public place, even a dark one. 

"You know," he said, his thumb brushing her knuckles. "Last night, you said this was a lot to take in." 

"I did." 

"Still feel that way?" 

YN looked at their hands. The contrast was stark—her manicured nails against his taped, battered fingers. It didn't make sense on paper. It didn't make sense to the business. 

But looking at him, she felt a quiet in her mind that she hadn't felt in years. 

"Yeah," she said, meeting his gaze. "It is a lot to take in. But..." 

She squeezed his hand back. 

"I think I can handle the weight." 

Dean Ambrose smiled, a genuine, unguarded smile that reached his eyes. 

"I know you can, YN. You're a Fliehr. You guys are tough as nails. High maintenance," he added quickly, "but tough." 

She kicked him under the table. "Don't push it." 

"Wouldn't dream of it."